


Antiseptic and Rosin

by EgoDominusTuus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bondage, Bonding, Dominate Sherlock, John is Sherlock's Bitch, Johnlock - Freeform, Light Bondage, M/M, Marking, Mating, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Psychic Wolves, Scarf Kink, Topping, first episode, pairing - Freeform, submissive John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-22 11:33:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22915537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EgoDominusTuus/pseuds/EgoDominusTuus
Summary: Sherlock never expected that this would happen, but John's heat was just too much to resist.---For Lupercalia and for Marshy!
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 15
Kudos: 105
Collections: Psychic Wolves for Lupercalia





	Antiseptic and Rosin

There was a desperation that Sherlock could almost smell in the air; his brother certainly could. The dark grey wolf had soft yellow eyes that were as keen as his siblings. They never missed a thing, when they were looking for it. There was something about the situation at hand that caught the wolf’s attention, and it was that something that had pushed Sherlock forward with a strength and gusto that he usually saved for when he was really, really on the trail of something.

It was Morph on the trail of something this time, and he could hardly deny his brother the small pleasures that he derived from life, not when he was straddled with someone such as himself. Sherlock was starkly aware of the fact that his mind was far busier than most, and that his brother spent more time sniffing around dead bodies and frustration and fits of rage or sweeping highs and swooping lows more than any sibling might have needed to.

He called his brother  _ rosin and clove,  _ and he loved him all the same for it. Sherlock had a feeling that Morph was the  _ only _ creature that really loved him, having crawled into his head, seen what he was, and found himself still willing to make a home there. There was no other being in the world who could claim that feat, though it was hardly a small one.

Still, he could tell that Morph was… searching for something. Sherlock did his damndest to make sure that he was never around a bitch in heat, because the thought of being powerless to the whims of human nature, being forced to fuck because Morph couldn’t resist himself… it sounded like an atrocity that he couldn’t stand. 

Sherlock had no idea what had Morph on edge until the man stepped into the room, a soft-looking bitch at his side who had keen orange eyes that looked like ghostfire in the low light of the lab. His brother’s eyes snapped raptly to her form, and Sherlock found his eyes, his ears, snapping to full attention on the smaller male whose name he didn’t know, but whose purpose he was already ascertaining from bits and scraps and the space of his gait…

\---

It never occurred to him that Morph might have been  _ concerned  _ with the fact that his brother spent most of his time in the company of a wolf. No one else seemed keen on sticking around, or if they did -- like the woman who came with different aromas on her skin every day, but whose small and sleek brother guaranteed that she would never luck into sleeping with the oblivious Sherlock -- he wasn’t interested in the least bit. There was nothing about them that stood out, nothing about them that spoke to the fact that they could possibly be a match for him intellectually, or possibly put up with how he was emotionally-or the lack thereof. 

But then, there was John. Watson. He was the smaller, sleek man… and he was the one who Sherlock was now living; neither seemed completely sure how it had happened, other than the fact that they needed one another in that particular moment. There was no one else, and there was nothing else… and then, it seemed there wasn’t really a need for anything else.

There was something exhilarating about working together for both of them, though it wasn’t anything that they could particularly put a finger on. It was some unspoken thing, thick in the air like the perfume of a heat. 

Sherlock didn't stop to consider that it was the beginnings of just that particular sensation that were ringing in his ears, because the entirety of their relationship together was so fresh and so new to him that he couldn't have put a finger on it, even if he had liked. He'd done his level best to avoid any bitch in heat, because he knew for a fact that he wouldn't be able to control himself, when given such a situation.

He'd been good for far too long to control himself.

He just didn't think that he would lose that carefully cultivated control with one John Watson, as the doctor approached him, smelling like gunpowder and sex.

"Sherlock..."

He'd intended to say something clever, about how they needed to wash the powder residue off of his skin, but Sherlock simply shook his head quickly -- there were others around, and they would soon be able to tell what was happening to Asa, John's sister. Much like his ability to read what a person had done without knowing them, he could see it in the way that she walked, the way that her tail was up, her scent just a bit off. Morph could smell it by the slight change in her scent...

It was probably Sherlock and Morph's ability to read a situation clearly that saved one John Watson from a gangbang by the entire portion of the police force that had a brother.

"Come. Now." Sherlock grabbed John under the arm like he was some wayward wife who needed to be directed by her overbearing husband, and pulled him towards the nearest hotel that he could see. The sensation of the oncoming heat was already pounding through his head, screaming through his temples and setting his blood on fire, but he told himself that he could control it. He would have to control it, because he had to get John off of the streets.

After all, he'd just saved his life -- he owed him his dignity, at least. That was what he told himself, as he pulled the man into the nearest room, slammed a few pounds on the counter to pay for one of the special suits where those who wanted to fuck without being bothered while their partner was in heat could go, and practically threw one John Watson onto the crimson bedspread.

"What are you--" But John was holding his stomach, his eyes wide as Asa paced back and forth along the room, her eyes fixated on Morph, who stood stock still, but didn't move his gaze from the bitch-wolf. "You can't be serious. She's not-- I'm not... we can't--"

"John, shut up." Sherlock put one hand to his head, fingers delving against his temple as though he could simply will away the sensation that was beginning to ripple through his body and take over his thoughts and mind completely. He'd avoided this for so long that he was starkly aware of how very much he was not in control of himself, how much experience he lacked in this particular department that therefore made it all but impossible to resist the urges that were already roiling up in Morph's chest, because he could smell what was happening; he knew what was happening... and he knew that there was only a scant minute before there was no turning back.

"I need to go. Now." But there was a hand on his arm, John, grabbing his dark sleeve, his eyes full of question, and need, and worry all at once; he'd just seen him nearly shot. He didn't know what was happening, though a clue was beginning to form like a hot pool in the pit of his stomach. 

"Sherlock?" Question. Pain. And then... "Sherlock."

Because what he'd been trying to avoid was here, and John's hand on his sleeve had been more than enough to sway him. Morph sprang forward, pursuing Asa to the corner of the room, and Sherlock could do nothing but follow in suit. His hand came up, long and elegant fingers wrapping around John's throat like they would hold the bow of his violin. He didn't have to force him backward, and John Watson had no trace of a limp when he stepped back one. Two. Three steps and then fell against the bed.

"Sherlock." No question this time, John's eyes had gone a shade darker, and for all of his tendencies to dissociate with people, with emotions, with feelings that weren't intrigue or puzzling something out, he couldn't put his thoughts anywhere but on his soft John's lips looked, how his chest was heaving up and down in perfect time with his heart-- how the strain in his slacks made it clear that he wanted this just as much. Sherlock came down with no warning, his long leg pressing between John's spreading his wide; his fingers made quick work of his shirt, his pants... he stripped him in less than a handful of seconds until he could see each scar and mark from the war that John had been sent home from.

He wanted to lick each and every raised portion of flesh... but there was one particular portion that he wanted to lick more.

That he needed to touch.

His fingers found John's cock hard, and he stroked along the length of it without any mercy or wavering, until John was squirming and writhing beneath him and the sweet scent of cinnamon and antiseptic, tinged with tea filled his nostrils. 

John's fingers didn't fumble as they came between them, unfastened Sherlock's pants, pulled at his shirt, until it spilled away, the coat falling to the floor -- only the scarf remained around his neck, and greedy fingers grabbed it eagerly and pulled. 

He might have thought to say something clever, but his lips were crashing hard against John's and there was nothing that he could do other than to give in to that kiss, to let his mouth part his new lover's lips, to greedily explore and claim each and every inch with rough and sure strokes of his tongue that had John whimpering in his mouth and his fingers scrambling hard and fast at the scarf around Sherlock's neck as though it was the only anchor in a world that had suddenly turned upside down. 

Nothing made sense, but everything in the moment was perfect, and Sherlock's hand skimmed down along John's leg, hiking it up and working the man, suppliant and needy beneath him, until that leg spilled over Sherlock's shoulder and he could press the length of his prick against John's flush and full ass.

His body had taken care of getting wet; there was no need to pause for something so crude as lubrication, or foreplay; there was no space either of their minds for such a thing. Instead, Sherlock thrust forward in one quick motion that sent the generous length of him diving deep into John's body -- it sent both of them singing, their minds clicking. Connecting. Melding.

Mating. 

He hadn't intended that. It was finally an outcome that he hadn't predicated upon analyzing a situation. He'd thought to bring John here and run. And then he'd thought to bring John here and fuck. But somehow, Sherlock had brought John here, and he could see a kaleidoscope of colors behind his eyes that spoke of forever and never parting. It was... foreign to him, but he chased it with another thrust of his hips, a rough burst of speed and vigor that had John squirming in submission beneath him. The only grip that John had was on the scarf around Sherlock's neck, and he made quick dismissal of that. He pulled the length of fabric off, twisted it around John's wrists, and used it to pin them above his head.

"Sher--" he might have meant to protest, but Sherlock jerked hard on the length of fabric and kissed him even harder, until just was whimpering and writhing beneath him again, his hips bucking up to beg more thrusts from the man above him.

There was a rhythm and heat to what was happening, a need that neither of them had really understood before. There was a warmth that radiated through both of their bodies and left them panting and breathless as Sherlock worked and bucked his hips, burying himself deep inside of John over and over again.

But it wasn't enough. He wanted to see the man completely undone. His free hand came between them, the other arm still pinning John to the bed by the scarf, and he took hold of his shaft again. He stroked him slow and steady, in pounding time to what his hips had been doing before. 

"I--" 

"No." His lips cut him off again, kissing hard enough to bruise John's mouth. He continued to stroke with a vicious fervor that spoke of how much he needed this moment to be perfect, to be his, to be in his control so that he wouldn't spiral from the reeling sensation of all of this newness. 

"Sher--" This time, he bit his lower lip and pulled taut, stroking hard... hard... faster until John was whimpering in his mouth and he tasted copper, until the man beneath him was one ball of teased orgasm that was ready to spill across the edge.

"Sherlock..." He whispered it this time, but he let him, because he could see that there was no fight there. No words. Just giving in -- submission. Complete. Total. He threw his head to the side and hot, liquid heat spilled from the tip of his prick. Just as quickly, Sherlock's head came down; his teeth set into the junction of John's neck and shoulder, biting down hard enough to draw blood. Hard enough to leave a scar.

Hard enough to leave a mark forever. 

It just made John come harder, and made Sherlock scream his name in one, long, loud note as he found his orgasm as well in a ripping, roaring, vicious flood of pleasure that completely overwhelmed him and left him riding the body beneath him hard, fast, and ragged until they were both soaked in sweat, and seed and a tinge of blood.

Only when the last droplet of pleasure spilled deep into John's heat did he collapse atop him, pulling him close, looping his hands over his neck, still bound by the scarf. The mark on his neck was enough to declare his intent.

John Watson belonged to him, and that was a fact that Sherlock Holmes dared anyone to question.


End file.
